By Halcyon Orvendall
Though I am not as much of a cinephile as some of my fellow Mossy Log brethren, I do enjoy watching new releases and participating in their discourse.
2024 offered numerous subjects for these discussions; “Dune: Part Two,” one of my favorite releases of the year, focused heavily on conquering Indigenous land and religion’s role in geopolitics. “Wicked” adapted a politically-charged Broadway musical into, in my opinion, a commercialized and discordant film that suffocated on its own CGI. “Inside Out 2” featured a playful — albeit ironically unimaginative — portrayal of how anxiety affects adolescence. But for me, “Babygirl,” a Christmas day release by indie darling production company A24, was the most interesting.
“Babygirl” tells the story of Romy Mathis (played by the magnificent Nicole Kidman), a CEO of a robotic automation company, whose carefully curated life unravels as she begins an affair with Samuel (played by hot-young-thing Harris Dickinson), a young intern at her firm. On the surface, the film examines the intersections of power imbalance, vulnerability and forbidden desire, but its real strength lies in the way it quietly reveals the pervasive social systems that entrap its characters, dictating their actions and limiting their choices.
So, without spoiling too much, here is my honest review. Note that I discuss several major plot points and character arcs, so if you want to, ahem, save yourself (for a spoiler-free first viewing), I suggest reading this after you have seen it.
Romy’s life — her sterile corporate office, her emotionally distant marriage, her pervasive phone addiction that seeps into nearly every scene — serves as a reflection of an unrewarding, capitalistic society that values productivity and control over intimacy and connection. As the head of a company built to replace human labor with machines, Romy embodies the very alienation she seeks to escape. Her affair with Samuel is an attempt to reclaim a part of herself lost to this world. But what Romy finds instead is how deeply her life is embedded in systems of domination and exploitation.
Samuel is, at first glance, the one without power. He is much younger, an intern and an underling. But it quickly becomes clear that Romy’s professional authority is far from absolute. Samuel’s knowledge of their affair — and his bold assertion that he could destroy her career with “one phone call”— reveals how tenuous her control truly is. Romy’s professional success, far from empowering her, easily becomes a weapon that others can wield against her.
The dynamics of their affair hinge on more than just their positions at work; they are deeply tied to the social and cultural pressures shaping them. Romy’s inability to reconcile her desires with her self-image underscores the emotional toll of inhabiting a role that demands strength and composure while punishing herself for any expression of need or weakness.
Other characters, like Esme (played by Sophie Wilde), add further complexity. Esme, one of Romy’s employees and Samuel’s girlfriend, discovers the affair and uses this knowledge to demand structural changes at the company and a promotion for herself. Her actions, though ruthless, underscore how survival within this environment often requires leveraging power wherever one can find it. Her storyline highlights the reality that upward mobility and self-advancement often come at the expense of others in a system designed to pit people against each other. Even as Romy asserts control — over her affair, her career, her marriage — she ultimately reinforces the very hierarchies she seeks to escape. The ethical dilemma is clear: does securing individual power in a broken system create real change, or does it merely uphold the status quo? If Romy’s victory is only personal, then what, ultimately, has been won?
Even Romy’s husband, Jacob (played by timeless Spanish hunk Antonio Banderas), is not exempt from these forces. His dismissal of Romy’s attempts to articulate her needs and his reactionary aggression during a climactic confrontation with Samuel suggests a deep discomfort with his position within their marriage and the broader societal expectations of masculinity. His eventual decision to reenact one of Romy’s affair-driven bedroom fantasies serves as both a desperate attempt to rekindle their relationship and a reminder of how power dynamics bleed into even the most intimate parts of their lives.
The film’s ending is not triumphant but quietly unsettling. While Romy appears to have overcome the sexual and professional discord in her marital and corporate spheres, her life remains deeply entwined with the structures that have shaped her. Her reconciliation with Jacob feels less like a resolution and more like a negotiation as if the couple has decided to adapt rather than escape.
“Babygirl” is a film about the illusions of control. It peels back the layers of its characters’ lives to reveal how power — whether rooted in professional hierarchies, gender norms or personal relationships — dictates the choices they make. What begins as a story about forbidden desire becomes a meditation on how systems of domination shape even the most personal aspects of human experience. In the end, the film leaves us with a lingering unease: is there any way to carve out genuine connection or agency in a world that seems designed to deny them?
I would be remiss to avoid discussing the film’s sex appeal. Although many body-horror and independent films have showcased explicit sex scenes and nudity in recent film releases, by and large, contemporary romance films tend to exclude explicit depictions of sex. Although tension and implied sex can definitely work in film, I think that depictions of sex in media are crucial to maintaining public discussions of the role of sex and sexuality in our everyday lives. So, to be forthright, this film was sexy. As Letterboxd user @barbiest put it, there was “not a dry seat in the house.” I will leave the rest for you to experience, dear reader.
With that said, I think a larger conversation needs to be had about the sexual degradation of women in film. It is impossible to ignore how often female characters’ sexual desires are framed through pain, humiliation or submission. While it is perfectly valid to explore and be interested in the fantasies portrayed, I am hesitant to label the sexual submissiveness Romy enjoys as inherently liberative.
The film seems to position Romy’s experiences as a form of reclamation — a respite from the emotional sterility of her marriage and the weight of her corporate persona. But is it truly liberation if her agency is bound up in dynamics of power that reinforce the very structures she is entangled in? Romy’s pleasure is real, but it is inextricably tied to the ways she is objectified and controlled, both by Samuel and the larger systems around her. Her submissiveness, rather than subverting power, becomes another extension of it, another avenue through which power is exerted over her body and choices.
What is most striking to me is how Romy’s story exists in the shadow of broader, systemic realities. Her vulnerability and desire are heightened by her isolation — by a world where intimacy is fragmented, connection is commodified and relationships are reduced to transactions. The film subtly suggests that her submission might not stem purely from desire but from a yearning for connection in a world that offers few opportunities for it. Is her pleasure, then, a form of freedom, or is it a coping mechanism for the alienation she experiences in every other sphere of her life?
Moreover, the film’s framing of Romy’s sexual awakening raises questions about how female characters’ sexual desires are often used as narrative tools. Romy’s sobbing after her first orgasm with Samuel is a moment of raw vulnerability, but it is also deeply uncomfortable. Her pleasure is depicted as both empowering and destructive, a force that destabilizes her sense of self. This duality — where female desire is both celebrated and punished — is a trope that feels all too familiar. It reinforces the idea that women’s sexuality is inherently dangerous, both to themselves and to others, and must therefore be contained, negotiated or controlled.
Even the resolution of the film does not escape these dynamics. Romy and Jacob’s decision to reenact one of her fantasies can be seen as a compromise, an attempt to rebuild their marriage by incorporating the elements of dominance and submission she craves. But the scene feels less like a triumph of mutual understanding and more like a concession. Jacob’s participation is transactional — an effort to retain his place in Romy’s life, rather than a true, enthusiastic embracing of her desires. The power dynamics that have defined her affair remain intact, simply shifting from one relationship to another.
This begs the question: Why do we continue to so often see women’s sexual agency explored through frameworks of control, submission and degradation? Is it because these stories reflect a reality of how women’s desires are shaped by the world they live in, or because they reinforce a cultural imagination that cannot envision female sexuality outside of these paradigms? “Babygirl” asks us to grapple with these questions, but it stops short of offering answers.
Perhaps that is the point. The film mirrors the unresolved realities of its characters’ lives, leaving us to untangle the threads on our own. Yet, in doing so, it risks perpetuating the very dynamics it seeks to critique. By framing Romy’s pleasure as inseparable from her subjugation, it limits the possibilities for female sexual liberation to exist outside of submission.
If “Babygirl” reveals anything, it is the need for new narratives — ones that explore female desire without reducing it to power struggles or punishment. Romy’s story may resonate, but it also reflects the constraints of a broader cultural script. It is a script that, much like Romy herself, is in desperate need of liberation.
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